The Percy Wassail
by Eightfold
Summary: Suikoden III. Pre-game Zexen Knights fluff/Christmas fic. Percival's about to be knighted... spoiler-free. Feedback much appreciated


_**Warnings/Author's Notes:** Suprisingly enough, none! This is technically Suikoden III fic, but it takes place pre-game; so there aren't any spoilers. Eight years pre-game, to be precise, so Percival is eighteen in this, Borus seventeen, and Chris is fourteen. I took some liberties with how the Zexens seem to handle knights-in-training; Kidd's investigation says that Percival "applied" to be a knight, but somehow I don't think they were talking about paperwork. The idea of a vigil and trial-by-combat is probably a little too mediaeval, though, but it fits in and I like it. In case it isn't obvious, Percival has to go through all of this to be Knighted, and he's nervous... and, of course, deals with it in the standard Percival way. Anyway, this is cute, fluffy, and ultimately pointless; I suppose technically it could be called Christmas fic in that it takes place around the right time and there is snow involved. As always, feedback much appreciated. This was really fun to write; anything with the Zexens in it usually is. I think I may do a sequel. The title is a takeoff on the traditional carol/song "The Gower Wassail", which I first heard on a Steeleye Span album. The lyrics kind of fit (http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/steeleye.span/songs/gowerwassail.html), and I was stuck for what to call this._

"Remind me again, Redram, why I'm going through with this?"

Percival Fallorain didn't wait for an answer, just whirled around and paced back across the length of the room. Space was tight, and the knight's auxiliary barracks at Vinay del Zexay had little room to spare for squires, exemplary or not.

Borus grabbed the glass Percival held as he passed, filled it to the brim with exquisitely expensive wine, then yawned. "Because I'll pound you into the ground if you don't. I'm sick of being second-fiddle. When you're gone, I'll get my due. _Finally_."

After draining off half the wineglass with little appreciation of its contents, Percival glared down into its depths. "Charming. And you'll slit my throat if I try to run off from the vigil, eh?"

"That's not funny!" Borus drew himself up stiffly. "Not in _church_." He refilled his own wineglass, and smirked. "I'd hunt you down and _then_ slit your throat."

"Oh, better and better." Percival finished off his wine, put the glass on the trunk at the foot of his bed. "Why, merciful Goddess, couldn't I have had _Chris_ to sit with me?" He flung himself across the bed, as if swooning in lamentation.

"Because she's fourteen and not up to staying awake three days and technically she's still a page. And she'd have to watch you during the ablutions, and I'm not letting her see you naked. You'd blind her."

"Jealous, are we?" Percival rolled over onto his stomach and clutched at his pillow. "I shall _weep myself to sleep_ tonight over your insults to my mortal form."

"You better not," Borus muttered in between sips of wine, "they make you do it over again from the beginning if you fall asleep, y'know."

"Why, no, I didn't." Abruptly Percival sat up, too restless to lay still. "That part of our instruction passed me by... maybe if I keep 'falling asleep' so I have to stay up a week, Galahad will go easy on me." He stared out the one tiny window on their wall; outside, snowflakes swirled in the air.

Borus refilled his wine and flashed Percival an innocent look. "If you're worried, you've still got...", he glanced over at the water clock by his own bed, "... three hours left."

"Bah! I need no sleep! I'm _invincible_!" Percival coughed, then bent over to grab his wineglass. "And also, if I sleep now I'll just be impossible to get up."

"You're mad, s'what you are... more?" Borus held up the bottle and wiggled it a little.

Bouncing off the bed, Percival crossed the room in two bounds. "How kind of you to offer -- what _is_ this stuff, anyway?"

"It's not _stuff_, it's _Redram Locustvine_." Obviously offended, Borus drew himself up and glared. "Perhaps you'd like some sugar in it, since that's how children take theirs?"

The insults didn't phase Percival so much as the name. "Locustvine?" He screwed his brow up and eyed the bowl of the glass warily. "There aren't bits of actual _bugs_ in this, are there?"

"No, you _idiot_. It's called that because that's what the grapes look like." Borus shook his head sadly; as the scion of a wealthy family renowned for their vineyards, he took wine-drinking less as pastime and more an obsession. "And they're usually buzzing around when it's harvested."

Percival shrugged, once again consuming a good half of the wine in a single go. "... real locusts would have been funnier."

"It's _wine_! It's not _supposed_ to be funny!"

"That's what _you_ think." Finishing his glass, Percival held it out, beaming. Borus snatched it away and scowled. "Fine. See if you get any more." With a sniff, he added, "You can go drink that swill they serve at the mess. _You_ wouldn't know the difference."

"Hrm. Now that you mention it, I _am_ a bit hungry..."

"... oh, no. _No_. No, do you hear?"

The "innocent" look Percival gave was, as per usual, anything but. "No _what_?"

Years-long acquaintance had given Borus a partial immunity. "Just... no. No. We're not sneaking out and hitting the street vendors, or-- or-- running around singing obscene Yule carols, or--"

"Ooh, I hadn't thought of that." Percival clamped a hand down on Borus' bicep and dragged him from the desk. "Ah, I knew I could count on you for a suitable proposition, Redram!"

Borus growled, but let himself be hauled up. "Goddess have mercy on my soul for the sins I am about to commit. May I at _least_ put on gloves first?"

"Fine, fine, just hurry up with it, will you?"

When they'd both put on their winter clothing (Borus' brand-new and worth a small fortune, Percival's entering their fourth year of service and due for an honorable retirement), they snuck out of the barracks without speaking.

Guild Way was covered in a few inches of white powder, and the snow gave no signs of abating. By unspoken agreement, they headed for Port Avenue. Snow crunched like eggshells beneath their boots; but for a few patches, the entire length had been salted, crews of street sweepers working even overnight to ensure that the guild hall was accessible.

"You aren't... _really_ going to run off from the vigil, are you?" Borus kept his eyes on the ground as he spoke.

"Nah." Percival jumped onto a patch of ice and slid across it, more-or-less keeping himself upright. "If I get it in the Trial by Combat, they have to bury me honorably, y'know."

"Pfft. Stop being so dramatic. It's just a _formality_, you know."

"It's a formality with live steel." Percival fell back into stride with Borus. "Candidates _have_ died, y'know. In Solis four-sixty-seven, seventy-three, and seventy-four."

"How do you _remember_ all that? It's morbid."

"It's not _morbid_, it's a _talent_..."

They passed by a lamp-lighter going about his business and ducked around, into the main thoroughfare of the street. Apart from a few folk out on late-night errands and horse-drawn carts making deliveries, they had the road to themselves.

"That's not _really_ what you're worried about, is it? Galahad sticking you in the gut?"

"No. Not really." Percival jammed his hands into his pockets. and glanced sidelong at his blond friend out of the corners of his eyes.

"Well, _good_. 'Cause you don't, you know. Have anything to worry about." Borus' dropped his voice to a stage-whisper, and muttered, "Look, don't go blabbing this, but you're the best swordsman of all of us and you _know_ it."

"Why, Lord Redram, I'm flattered!" Borus responded to the jibe by punching Percival in the arm. "Shut up, you know what I _meant_."

"... true enough. Thanks."

That issue settled, they walked in silence for a few moments, drawing nearer to the intersection of Guild Way and Port Avenue.

"I just... wonder if this is where I should be." Percival spoke quietly, hands still deep in his pockets. "_How_ many years have you been doing this?"

"Doing _what_?"

Percival momentarily pulled a hand from his pocket to wave in the general direction of the  
barracks. "This. Studying. Training. Squiring. Er... what's the one that comes before squire?"

"Paging." Borus caught himself. "I mean, uh, page. And, er, since I was eight."

"Seventeen minus eight is _nine_, Redram."

"Oh, go to hell."

Percival grinned in triumph, then grew serious again. "But look, that's over half your life. And you always knew you were going to be a Knight, right?"

"Mm-hmm. First son for the manor, second to the Church, third to the Knights." This pronouncement was remarkably cheerful; Borus almost sing-songed the words.

"Precisely. You and thirty-seven _other_ third sons who never had any doubts where they were going. Or any choice, for that matter."

"Hey!"

"Hey, _what_?"

"That's not true. I _did_ choose this, you know."

"You did?"

Borus looked pained, but nodded earnestly. "Yes. I mean... back when I still had tutors and all, I _hated_ it. Couldn't wait for the lessons to end so I could go swing that dumb wooden sword at things. Stayed up a whole week before I came to Brass. I _always_ wanted to do this. Always. There's nothing else I'd rather do." His eyes gleamed with a sincerity that was almost painful.

It made Percival uncomfortable. He glanced up at the drifting snow and shrugged. "Yes, well... yes. See? You _know_ you're supposed to be here. It never even _occured_ to as much as _think_ of being dissatisfied. Me, now... I..."

"Oh, come off it!" Borus snapped, peeved that he'd been broken out of his reverie. "Look at it like this: maybe I-- maybe all of us "third sons" are here because of our families, right? Well, _you_ had to _convince_ Galahad to let you join, so obviously you had to have wanted it more than we did. And a knight -- a _real_ Knight -- has to want it. It's like a priestly vocation. You have to be called. And if you _weren't_, you wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of hunting down Galahad and petitioning for admittance, but you did, so obviously there's chivalry in your heart and you belong to be here."

The little speech left Percival speechless for several moments, a minor miracle in and of itself. "Sadie's Horns, Redram, did you just make a case based on reason and logic? I do believe that's one of the Signs of the Eschaton. Soon will come the Black Riders, and the Fall of the Moon, and the plague of... plagues."

"Why do I even bother?" Borus didn't even deign to punch the smirking Percival, just drew the sign of Blessed Loa on his chest and shook his head with exaggerated piety. "Shameful heathen."

They turned the corner onto Port Avenue together, as the road suddenly narrowed. Less well-maintained than the showpiece that was Guild Way, ice glittered in patchwork along its length.

"Because you're the only one who takes this chivalry business seriously."

They drew up in front of the Lightfellow residence. Dark, only the light of a single candle from a window on the second floor giving any indication the occupants were awake.

"That's not true. _She_ does."

Percival vaulted over the iron gate barring the manor from the street and started snooping around the front yard. "That's true. She takes it _too_ seriously."

He scooped a handful of snow off the ground and started packing into a ball. "You poor, poor misguided children. Without me, how would you ever have any _fun_?"

"Quietly." Borus brushed blond hair out of his eyes and grumbled, slouching up against an oak tree. "With _dignity_."

Making tsking noises, Percival carefully took aim at the one half-lit window. "Pfft. What fun is dignity?" He let loose and nailed Chris' window in the dead center. The snowball exploded against the glass; he ducked out of the way, but Borus was dusted by some of the powdery white fallout.

A minute later, the window opened enough for the room's occupant to stick her head out. "Who's there? What do you want?"

"Please to see the Chris, mistress!"

She shook her head and frowned down at the garden, squinting. "Don't be silly, Percival. What are you _doing_ here? Your vigil starts -- er, soon!" Spotting the blond figure hunched against the tree, she leaned further out of the window to get a good look. "Is that you, Borus? I can't believe you let him out at a time like this!"

Chagrined, Borus crossed his arms over his chest and muttered, "Like I had a _choice?_", while Percival whistled innocently and gathered up another handful of snow.

"Oh, believe it, dear Chris, _believe it_. And if you're so concerned for my, er, disciplinary well-being, you might deign to help keep me from being detained for, say, throwing snowballs at the window of your trusty butle--"

"Don't you dare!" She hissed, eyes wide. "... I'll be down in a minute!"

True to her word, she crept out of the house under a minute later, tiptoeing round the corner and glaring at them both with mittened hands on her hips.

"I can't _believe_ you two! What next, crashing the Guildsman's Ball and spiking the punch?"

Borus' protestations of innocence were drowned out by Percival's delighted cackle. "Ooh, that's even better than the obscene caroling -- oh, you two truly are folk after my own heart."

Chris shook her head and sighed. "You're loony. And a corrupting influence."

"On you?" Percival quirked up an eyebrow.

"On poor Borus." She flashed the aforementioned squire a grin. "Did he blackmail you?"

"... no," Borus admitted reluctantly, "but what was I supposed to do, let him free to wreak his insanity _alone_?"

"You have a point, I suppose..." Chris sighed and moved forward, reaching up to brush snow out of Borus' hair. He blushed hard, glancing away while she worked. "Well, Percival, now that you've inveigled us _both_ into your, um, cohort... what do you want?"

Percival heaved a dramatic sigh and put his hand to his forehead. "All the work I put into showing you two how to _enjoy_ yourself, and what do I receive in return? Scorn and disdain. Ingrates, the _both_ of you." Putting lie to his words, he beamed brightly back at Chris, pointing to one cheek. "All I ask, fair lady, is but a token of your favor. After all, I'm about to walk off boldly into the unknown, unsure of my fate, to face possib--"

"The Chapel of Loa isn't 'unknown'."

Borus smirked and saluted Chris; Percival sighed and slumped a little. "That doesn't sound as good. Anyway --" He wiggled his eyebrows in mock lasciviousness. "Kiss for luck?"

"Hey!" Borus shoved himself off of the oak tree, half-growling, but Chris stood up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss on Percival's cheek before he could stop her. "Good luck, Percival."

"You _rotter_!" Gesticulating wildly, he hurled insults at Percival, who looked _far_ too pleased with himself. "Conniving, indecent, he--"

He was cut off in midstream by Chris turning around and doing him the same service, then settling back down on her feet and smiling.

"And good luck to _you_, too. If you have to put up with him for three days, you're going to need it."

"Hey!" Percival suddenly lost his smug expression and pouted. "I object to that."

Chris and Borus both ignored him, too busy laughing.

When they'd settled down, he threw an arm round each of their shoulders and leaned forward. "Right, now, you cruel, beastly fiends... I've three hours left as a squire, and you're both going to help me bloody well _enjoy_ them..."


End file.
